


Harder for You, of Course

by pendrecarc



Category: Think of England - K. J. Charles
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, Lesbian Awakening With Detective Interruptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 18:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: New Year's Eve, 1899--Patricia Merton attends a shooting party, experiences fireworks (literal and figurative), and learns what one can get away with in society.Oh, and then there's the murder.





	Harder for You, of Course

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adspexi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adspexi/gifts).



There was a moment with the stock of a gun pulled tight into her shoulder, between the exhalation of one breath and the inhalation of the next, when everything around her fell away and all was right in the world.

Pat had no soul for poetry, but she knew paradise when she’d found it.

Then came the squeeze of the trigger and the familiar kick of the shot, the crack and after it the smell of powder. The clay pigeon exploded, scattering dark shards against the clean winter sky.

“Oh, well done,” said Sandy from behind her, and just like that, it wasn’t Pat and her shotgun alone on the hill anymore.

“Thank you,” she said briskly. She turned to take the fur muff he’d been holding for her and shoved her hands inside. Pat favored thin calfskin gloves for shooting, and they weren’t proof against the cold this far north, so late in the year. She frowned at the low ridge where the clay had fallen and gauged the distance. “Not a bad shot.”

“I’ll say.” Sandy was smiling at her, blue eyes bright in his wind-reddened face. “You know most men have to sit around and hold their fiancées’ purses while they shop for hats and stockings and whatnot. This is much better.”

“I’m so glad to hear I don’t bore you,” she replied. He took it as a joke, which it probably was. She just wasn’t sure which of them was the butt of it.

From behind them, someone clapped enthusiastically and called out, “Miss Merton! Oh, Miss Merton, that was _wonderful_.”

Pat grit her teeth, and Sandy winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I won’t hold you responsible for your relations. I’ll go distract her while the rest of you have your turns.”

“You’re an angel.” Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Pat stomped down the hill in a manner that was far from angelic.

It was the 31st of December, 1899, and they had traveled north at her uncle’s invitation to ring in a new century at his country house on the Scottish borders. Pat was not keen on house parties. If the choice had been hers alone she could have thought of half a dozen ways she would have preferred to spend the holiday, but in addition to being Pat’s uncle, Arthur Gardiner’s owned the rail company where Sandy was a rising star. Of course Sandy had been eager to accept.

He’d been less eager to bring his astonishingly pretty but unfortunately birdwitted young cousin, but his mother had been persistent. When Aunt Dora had declared it would make up their numbers perfectly at dinner, there hadn’t been any graceful way to avoid it.

This cousin, Fenella Carruth, was waiting with the other women of their party at the bottom of the ridge from which Pat and the men were shooting, and as Pat approached she clasped her hands in enthusiasm. “Miss Merton, how fabulous you are! I should so love to shoot, but I’ve always found the idea rather frightening. Do you suppose I could persuade Sandy to teach me?”

“You can always ask,” Pat said uncharitably.

“You might have better luck with my husband,” said Mrs. Atwood, one of the other guests, in a tone that made Pat frown at her. Mr. Atwood had been more than willing to indulge Miss Carruth’s inanities, but Pat had thought his interest seemed more avuncular than anything else. Mrs. Atwood caught Pat’s eye and gave her a thin-lipped smile. “He is always happy to share his expertise.”

“Dear Mr. Atwood,” said Miss Carruth, “he is ever so patient. I am sure if I—”

Pat let her voice fade into the background—she’d had plenty of practice on the train journey north—and turned back to the low hill where her uncle still stood with the gentlemen. One of them, the Mr. Atwood in question, took aim. His shot went a little low. Pat saw the pigeon reach the height of its arc and begin to fall before she heard the sharp report of the gun, echoing off the low hills.

The single redeeming thing about a country house party, Pat had decided, was the country. Uncle Arthur’s house was beautifully remote, several miles from the nearest village and over an hour’s drive from the train station. The house itself was nestled among ridges and valleys on the edge of a sprawling spruce forest. She’d risen early that morning and dressed for a brisk hike; the moment the late sunrise had finally come she’d been off, alone in a landscape still covered in heavy frost, with nothing louder in her ears than the crunch of her feet in the frozen grass and her own heavy breaths as she attacked a steep rise. She’d had a great deal to think about, and it had been such a relief to have the space for it.

“Are you all right?” came her aunt’s voice at her elbow.

Pat managed a smile. “Lost in thought.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Aunt Dora, gently teasing. “He’s a fine figure of a man.”

She was watching Sandy prepare for a shot, and Pat realized she was meant to comment on this. “Yes, of course. Very fine.” He was, she supposed. A little taller than the average, with an athletic build. Not a face to swoon over, but pleasant enough to look at. Which she would be doing across the supper table every night for the rest of her life.

He made that shot, and the next. Her uncle Arthur leant over to say something to Mr. Atwood before offering Sandy his congratulations. Sandy turned his shotgun over to one of the groundsmen and came quickly down the slope, still glowing with the praise. “What a perfect day for it,” he said, sliding an arm comfortably about Pat’s waist. “And a stunning location. Gardiner told me his place was well situated for sport, but I’d no idea it would have such fine views as well. Pat was enjoying them just this morning, weren’t you?”

“Yes, the grounds are lovely,” Pat said, hoping no-one would offer to join her tomorrow. She’d been anticipating a quiet morning with everyone else still abed after a long night of drinking and other entertainment.

But she needn’t have worried. Sandy had already moved on. “And the house itself is so elegant and comfortable, Mrs. Gardiner. It’s been well worth the journey. Thank you for your warm hospitality.”

He’d already thanked her several times. Pat knew how much weight he placed on her uncle’s opinion and how gratified he’d been at the invitation, but she ought to warn him against laying it on quite so thick.

“Of course; we’re delighted to have you here,” her aunt said, also not for the first time. At least it seemed sincere, even with repetition.

“You must welcome the chance to get away from town and visit the place,” Sandy went on. “Everything’s so much clearer out here. One can actually breathe.”

“I suppose so,” her aunt replied. “Arthur often says as much. Do you suppose the light will last very much longer?”

Sandy blinked at her lack of enthusiasm. Pat pressed her hand gently to his arm and said, “Not for good shooting. We might have another half hour if we’re lucky.”

“Is that enough time for Sandy to teach me?” asked Miss Carruth. Sandy started, and Pat held in a laugh. “Do say you will, Sandy dear; it looks like such fun.”

Sandy stammered, “I don’t think your father—”

“Oh, bother my father, and your mother too while we’re at it,” said Miss Carruth cheerfully. “They won’t mind this. It’s not at all the sort of trouble you’re meant to keep me out of.”

Aunt Dora reddened and Mrs. Atwood pressed her lips together in a clear effort to hold in a comment, while Sandy shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Pat was just weighing the wisdom of suggesting she try Mr. Atwood after all when Miss Carruth turned to her. “Then it will have to be Miss Merton! I know you at least won’t have anything crushing to say about unladylike hobbies. Out of solidarity if nothing else you must teach me.”

Pat didn’t want to get Sandy in trouble with his mother, but he looked more frustrated than concerned, and that decided her. “All right,” she said. “You may fire both barrels, and then you may reload and try again. Quickly, now, while the light is still good.”

Setting off uphill without waiting for Miss Carruth, she just caught Mrs. Atwood’s dry, _sotto voce_ , “Good luck.”

The gentlemen had accepted Pat readily enough, with her workmanlike tweed and brisk confidence, but their reactions as Miss Carruth came trotting up the hill in her impractical shoes and absurd little hat were mixed. Mr. Atwood’s face split behind his greying walrus mustache in a smile. “Good show, Miss Carruth.” That won him a dazzling show of dimples. Uncle Arthur shot Pat a look of dubious amusement, while his brother, George Gardiner, just blinked in surprise—but then Pat had started to suspect brother George was no quicker in thought than he was at readying his shot.

“If you would, gentlemen.” Pat raised her shotgun and beckoned Miss Carruth, which sent the men scattering. “Have you handled a firearm before?”

“Never in life,” Miss Carruth announced, turning that dimpled smile on Pat, who had no intention of falling for its charms. “I am entirely in your hands.”

“Then pay attention. The first rule is that you must always assume a gun is loaded, no matter if you’ve been told otherwise. It follows that you never point it at anything you wouldn’t be happy to shoot.”

She even frowned adorably. It was rather irritating. “And if, say, I wouldn’t be _happy_ , but I might not be entirely _heartbroken_ , either?”

“Miss Carruth,” said Pat sharply, “if you don’t mean to take this seriously, we are done.”

The facetiousness fled Miss Carruth’s face at once. “Of course. I do apologize.”

She almost sounded as though she meant it, and Pat nodded. “All right. Let me show you how to load.” She demonstrated first, unlatching the break action and sliding the cartridges in at quarter speed. She unloaded again and made Miss Carruth perform the simple task twice before she was satisfied. Pat was keeping one eye on the horizon, where the sky was already beginning to darken between the early sunset and the low clouds rolling in. “Good. If this was more than a lark, I’d teach you to clean it as well.”

“You don’t think I’m in earnest, Miss Merton?” Miss Carruth arched a well-shaped eyebrow at her. It was a practiced motion, one Pat had seen her deploy in the two days of their acquaintance when flirting with everyone from Sandy to an aging porter at the train station in London. Now it didn’t look inviting so much as provoking.

Pat didn’t know how to flirt, but she had long since mastered skepticism. “I’m ready to be convinced.”

“I do love a challenge.” There were those dimples again, but none of the silly-girlishness from before. Pat wasn’t quite sure what to do with the intensity of Miss Carruth’s gaze, so she held out the shotgun instead.

It was a 12-bore Holland and Holland, a dear friend of hers. She would have picked something lighter for Miss Carruth if she’d had the opportunity to choose, but the India-rubber pad covering the end of the stock would protect her from the recoil. She showed Miss Carruth how to raise it, how the stock was best tucked into her shoulder, and how to brace herself. “There, nearly,” she said, stepping in to correct her grip, sliding Miss Carruth’s hand a little farther along the barrel. Her gloves were pretty things, lambskin soft as butter and grey like a dove’s wing. It would be a pity to spoil them with gun oil, but if she really wanted to shoot, Pat wasn’t about to coddle her. “Sight along the barrel.” She moved in closer, until their shoulders were brushing and she caught the scent of Miss Carruth’s perfume. It was dark and rather heady, where Pat would have expected something light and floral. “Don’t hold so tight—here, let me show you.” Miss Carruth loosened her left hand obediently, and Pat curled her own about the barrel right beside it. “Secure enough, but you don’t want to choke it.”

“Yes, I see. Like this?” Pat had dropped her voice automatically, and Miss Carruth followed suit. She had a pleasant enough alto when she wasn’t prattling on. “It’s rather phallic, isn’t it? No wonder the gentlemen enjoy it.”

Pat blinked. Miss Carruth had tilted her head just a fraction, the better to eye her as she spoke. Despite herself, Pat felt a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “If you’re trying to shock me, Miss Carruth, you should know I have—I grew up with four brothers, and three of them joined the army. There’s nothing you could say that I haven’t heard before.”

“I should very much like to test that, but this isn’t the time or the place.” Her lips quirked; Pat’s eyes dropped to them, then to the bare skin of her throat below. She must be freezing in that slim but well-cut coat, and she hadn’t even the sense to wear a heavy scarf underneath it. “Now I pull the trigger?”

“Now you let me get out of your way and wait patiently for my instructions.”

“Yes, Miss Merton,” she said meekly, and Pat let the grin show.

She made Miss Carruth fire at nothing at first, just to get the feel of it. She made a startled little noise as the gun jumped in her hands, then laughed delightedly. “Oh, very nice. I see how one could develop a taste for this. Now may I shoot something?”

“Now you may shoot _at_ something,” Pat allowed, “but I very much doubt you will hit it. That’s not a comment on your ability,” she added, when Miss Carruth’s eyes narrowed. “It takes practice, and you’re not using a beginner’s weapon. Reload first.”

As she’d expected, the clay pigeons survived the experience none the worse for wear. Miss Carruth, undaunted, declared her intentions of taking up the hobby as soon as she could persuade her father to purchase a nice lady’s shotgun.

“She’ll have moved on to something else before our train is halfway back to London,” Sandy predicted, pitching it for Pat’s ears alone as the party made its way back to the house. A light snow had just begun to fall, and the lesson had used up the last of the good daylight. George Gardiner had grumbled a bit about that—he’d elected to stand back at a safe distance and watch rather than work around Miss Carruth’s efforts—but Uncle Arthur had said firmly that he never begrudged anyone the chance to learn, and no-one else had complained.

“You think she’s that flighty?” Pat would have agreed only an hour before, but Miss Carruth had shown a surprising degree of focus.

“Mother says she’s a silly, spoilt creature who’s used to getting her way. When her looks won’t do it, her father’s money usually will. I’m sure she’s a good enough sort at heart,” he added, considering, “though I don’t know her well enough to say. I do wish she’d grow up. And I really am sorry to subject you and the Gardiners to her at such short notice.”

“Uncle Arthur thinks she’s funny,” Pat said. “He’d probably find her tiresome enough if we were here much longer, but we’ll survive the weekend at least. What sort of trouble _are_ you supposed to keep her out of?”

“I didn’t ask for details, but my guess is it’s not the sort she’s likely to get into on a quiet holiday with a handful of married men past middle age. Mother wanted some time to herself, I think; Fenella’s father won’t come back from America until the middle of January. I gather he’s hoping to arrange a suitable female companion for her once he does.”

“Good luck to her, whoever she is,” Pat said, and Sandy laughed.

Miss Carruth had been chattering at a captivated Mr. Atwood and a bemused Uncle Arthur about the improbable plot of H. Rider Haggard’s latest novel, which she’d attempted to lend to Pat on the train. Hearing Sandy’s laugh, she turned back to look at them. Her eye caught Pat’s, and she quirked an eyebrow again. This time Pat found it harder to decide whether it was challenge or invitation.

*******

The main entertainment for the holiday was, of course, planned for midnight. Arthur Gardiner’s enthusiasm for controlled explosions did not end with shooting—after a recent visit to China he had taken a strong interest in fireworks, and he’d spent several weeks (and, Pat imagined, a fair amount of money) in preparing a display.

Pat watched her Aunt Dora’s face as he held forth on the topic at dinner, all but ignoring the excellent meal while he punctuated his description of Marco Polo’s famous journey with expressive gestures. Perhaps it was only that her aunt took no interest in the ancient development of gunpowder, or the complicated history of its travels from China to the west, but Pat had begun to suspect she was no more enthusiastic about fireworks than about shooting, and that she’d have much preferred to be back in town for the holiday. Not to mention in very different company.

She and her mother’s sister were not particularly close. Her mother had married down in the world, as Mrs. Merton herself would cheerfully say, and while she might be very happy living in the middle of nowhere with a glorified farmer and their five uncivilized children, her extended family was less pleased with the situation. Holidays for Pat, growing up, had been spent with her father’s sprawling family on the large estate he managed. She hadn’t met Dora and Arthur Gardiner above a handful of times until she attained her majority.

Then her father had developed rather serious back trouble, making oversight of an active farming operation painful at best and impossible at worst. Her parents had moved in with relatives, her brothers had gone off to start their careers, military and otherwise, and Pat had been at loose ends.

A series of secretarial jobs had brought her to London, where she’d struck up an acquaintance with her relatives. Her positions had mostly been with well-to-do older women who found Pat’s air of practical competence steadying and her lack of particular beauty unlikely to appeal to a husband’s wandering eye. The work was genteel enough that her aunt found it acceptable, but it was Pat’s hobbies that brought her into regular contact with the Gardiners. A sporting man himself, Arthur had been taken with the idea of a young lady tramping about the countryside in tweed and sturdy boots, a shotgun tucked under her arm.

“Would never have expected it of Dora’s family,” he’d told her more than once. “You never met your grandfather, did you? A relic. Liked his women arranged in the sitting room in the evenings, playing the piano or reading sentimental tosh to the whole family. And he never worked a day in his life. Had others to earn a living for him off land he never touched, though of course he had to sell it all in the end.” This to be taken in contrast, Pat assumed, with railway magnates, who bought up land from the same kind of relic and used it to host their shooting parties.

She was never certain how sorry to feel for her Aunt Dora. She was not a woman who complained, at least not at the endless dinners to which Pat had found herself invited, and certainly not now, surrounded more by her husband’s friends than her own. George Gardiner was decidedly not one of the scintillating conversationists she preferred. Aunt Dora and Mr. Atwood, who had been introduced as an old school friend of Uncle Arthur’s, seemed to be settled into a relationship of cordial disinterest, though Pat found him decent company. He spent most of the soup course trying to convince Pat to register for the Ladies’ All England shooting competition, which he helped to judge. “My Gabriella’s on the board, you know,” he said, giving his wife an affectionate look she seemed not to notice.

Gabriella Atwood was more than clever enough to hold her own at any social gathering, and she treated her hostess with punctilious respect, but she seemed no happier to be spending the weekend here than Aunt Dora herself. The two women were not friendly enough to make up for the situation with comfortable solidarity.

Which brought Pat back to Fenella Carruth, who would have fit in very well at any of Aunt Dora’s dinners back in London. She was, Pat noticed with surprise, remarkably good at this—hanging on Uncle Arthur’s every word while he had his rhythm going, but drawing his wife into the conversation at each opportunity. She didn’t make the mistake Sandy had of assuming Dora shared her husband’s passions. Instead she turned the conversation away from his descriptions of the historical sites they’d visited in Peking and toward the charitable activities of the wife of the British minister to the Qing Dynasty, whom Aunt Dora knew very well. When Uncle Arthur tired of this and started in on his plans for grouse hunting with the Atwoods later that month, Miss Carruth let him steer the conversation at his end of the table, settling into her own tête-à-tête with Aunt Dora.

Like most things about Fenella Carruth, it seemed artless, but Pat was beginning to think it was very artful indeed.

Which was why it felt so disconcerting when, as the ladies settled into the sitting room after dinner, Pat found the force of Miss Carruth’s attention turned upon her. “Mrs. Gardiner has just been telling me that she played matchmaker to you and my cousin! How is that you met?”

“At some function or other,” Pat said. “Maybe a card party? But we were acquainted for a long time before we started seeing much of one another.” Miss Carruth was clearly waiting for more, and Pat wondered if she’d sounded dismissive. She hadn’t meant to. It was just that everyone seemed convinced that two young people about to be married must be ascending the heights of passion. The idea of a comfortable agreement never seemed to have entered their heads. She cast about for something more appropriate to say. “I—I think we really got to know each another at that dinner you hosted this summer, Aunt Dora. We were seated next to one other and started talking.” Though for the life of her, she couldn’t remember about what. “I’m afraid it’s not very romantic.”

“What she’s left out,” said Aunt Dora, “is that Mr. Meriwether asked to call on her the very next day. He didn’t have an easy time of it, mind you! Who was it you were working for, Pat dear? Mrs. Crawford? She always begrudged you your days off. It made the whole matter quite difficult, but Mr. Meriwether managed.”

“He was persistent,” Pat admitted. Not that Sandy had been bothersome about it. He’d tried flowers and poetry at first, but when that hadn’t served he’d adjusted his approach to a matter-of-fact courtship. They were friendly, they had clear expectations of one another, and they’d been engaged by October.

“And when is the wedding?” Mrs. Atwood asked politely.

“In May.” She could not, just at the moment, remember if Miss Carruth and her father were on the guest list—but they must be. Sandy’s mother would have seen to that. Pat wasn’t sure whether to be glad of it or not. She looked across the room at Miss Carruth, who was watching her with an oddly knowing eye, and decided not.

She was spared further wedding talk when Miss Carruth declared her intentions of interrogating Aunt Dora all about the shopping districts in Peking—was that where she had found that stunning silk scarf from the day before, the one with all the blue peacocks? Pat settled back in her seat with a little sigh of relief.

“Should I take it you don’t want to be asked about your wedding dress or your honeymoon plans?” asked Mrs. Atwood. Her tone was less polite now and more wryly sympathetic, and Pat laughed.

“No honeymoon,” she said. “We have our eye on a nice house in Clerkenwell, and I’d much rather save for that. And besides, Sandy’s work keeps him quite busy.”

Mrs. Atwood was of an age with Pat’s aunt, though without that impression of a delicate beauty beginning to fade. Instead there was something straightforward about her looks, as though she knew she had never been admired for them and couldn’t have cared less. Middle age suited her. “I imagine it does. I admit I’m curious about what Arthur is like as an employer.”

“Exacting, is my impression,” Pat said. “Though Sandy says he can be extraordinarily generous. And—” She hesitated. This was not Sandy’s conclusion but her own, and she would have hesitated to share it with any of the other guests, but Aunt Dora was safely occupied by Miss Carruth. “He’s also a bit ruthless, I think.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Atwood, fixing Pat with a curious look. “Ruthlessness and generosity both. That seems about right.”

“I suppose the ruthlessness is a necessary part of building a company like his,” Pat added. “It’s not a job for the faint of heart.”

“No,” Mrs. Atwood agreed. “Though he certainly chose his wife well, to paper over those minor social blemishes.” Pat could not disagree, but she was reluctant to say as much. Mrs. Atwood seemed to understand, because she changed the subject. Soon after the gentlemen came in from their port and cigars, and the conversation became less personal.

The light snow from earlier had continued and thickened as the evening wore on, and when at least Uncle Arthur excused himself to prepare the fireworks, he warned them all to dress for the cold. Pat’s heavy gear was already laid out from the walk that morning, so she made it back downstairs before anyone but Miss Carruth.

“You’ll freeze in that,” Pat said after one look at her—she was in the same light wool coat and flounced skirt from that afternoon, and though she seemed to have found a scarf, it was an airy, inadequate scrap of fabric that wouldn’t do a thing against the wind.

“It’s all I have,” Miss Carruth protested. “ _I_ didn’t know we’d be wandering about in the snow at all hours. You seem wonderfully prepared, though I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“At least cover your neck.” Pat’s coat had a high, close collar, so she unwound her own scarf and went over to wrap it about Miss Carruth’s slender throat. She lifted her chin for Pat to loop it around once more and tuck the ends in. The wool was warm but rather coarse, and Pat wondered if it would itch. She slid a finger inside to loosen it from the smooth skin beneath, then looked up to find Miss Carruth watching her closely. She pulled her hands away. “I’m sorry.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Carruth. “It’s terribly kind of you to look after a scatterbrained thing like me.”

“How much of it is an act?” Pat asked.

Miss Carruth blinked her sparkling brown eyes. She had ridiculously long lashes and a habit, Pat had just noticed, of pressing the bow of her lips together for an instant when she was amused. “Miss Merton, I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“Don’t be cross with me, Miss Merton,” she said, her hand darting out to rest lightly on Pat’s ungloved wrist. Pat was bundled up so thoroughly that she ought to be quite warm, but gooseflesh sprang up suddenly all along her arm. “I am so hoping we will be friends.”

“We might manage it,” Pat said, “but I should warn you I don’t play games with my friends.”

Her eyes danced. “I’m very fond of games. What kind do you mean?”

“The kind where I pretend to be something I’m not.”

“That’s very admirable and straightforward of you. Do you mean it’s only your husband you mean to lie to? I’m not asking out of any great concern for my cousin,” she went on, as though she hadn’t noticed Pat’s sudden stiffness. “I barely know the man, and I think he can take care of himself. But will you be happy?”

Pat managed not to snatch her hand away, but it took some effort. Her lips didn’t seem to be moving the way she wanted them to. “What—I don’t know what lies you think I’ve told him.”

“Lies don’t need to be spoken aloud,” Miss Carruth said. Then she looked at Pat a little closer and withdrew her hand. “Good heavens, your face. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I don’t—” Pat wasn’t sure how to end that.

Miss Carruth hesitated, then gave her a strange, gentle smile Pat was surprised to see on a girl of only nineteen. It was almost, but not quite, an apology. “Or perhaps not, Miss Merton. You know how I chatter; I may have spoken out of turn. Friends, still?”

She held out her hand again, this time to shake. There should have been nothing alarming in that gesture. It was a small hand, narrow and fine-boned, with carefully-shaped nails and skin that showed the greenish thread of delicate veins underneath. Pat steeled herself and took it.

“There,” Miss Carruth said, pressing her palm lightly. “Friends. I think that is your uncle coming downstairs; let’s go ask what he has in store.”

*******

Pat had no particular expectations for what a fireworks display ought to look like before it was set alight, but Uncle Arthur evidently wanted them to be impressed at the neat rows of dark cylinders set atop the rise from which they’d been shooting that afternoon. Pat was willing to follow along. She had to wince at Sandy’s eager questions, though. Judging by the faint smell on his breath, someone had broken out the single malt while they were all upstairs changing. She suspected some involvement from Mr. Atwood and George Gardiner, whose voices were raised more than was been necessary to carry across the snow-covered ground.

And it was still snowing. Everything had turned light and powdery around them, and Pat spared a pleasant thought for her walk the next morning. She’d little doubt she’d be the only one up at sunrise, late as it would come, as the drinking was clearly going to continue; aside from the Scotch, there was a table set up with a brazier to heat a vat of mulled wine. A second held a full complement of glasses, and half a dozen bottles of champagne cooled in the snow at its feet. A large bonfire crackled merrily as the seven of them stood and waited at the bottom of the little valley, from where they’d been promised an excellent view.

“Mr. Gardiner,” Sandy called, passing Pat the glass of wine he’d just filled. She removed her hand from the fur muff to take it and felt the heat soak through her glove and into her skin. It was delicious, thick with cloves and cinnamon and the bite of brandy underneath. “Will the snow be a problem, sir?”

“Not in the least. It’s dry enough.” Arthur Gardiner was pacing along the ranks of the fireworks with a large electric lantern, occasionally bending to fiddle with something on the ground or calling out instructions to the pair of groundsmen who waited nearby. “I’ve forgotten my watch. What do you have?”

“Twenty-five minutes to midnight, sir.”

That set George Gardiner muttering about how they were to entertain themselves out in the cold. He suggested starting in on the champagne at once. Miss Carruth protested, saying they must wait until the clock struck. Mr. Atwood took her part, and he and Mr. Gardiner began a friendly if rather tipsy argument, which Miss Carruth and Aunt Dora punctuated with occasional laughter.

Pat was not standing quite close enough to Mrs. Atwood to hear her sigh, but her expression in the dancing light of the bonfire was enough. She met Pat’s eye with a look of resignation and ladled herself some wine.

It was at that point that Sandy mentioned seeing a naval captain take the neck cleanly off a bottle of champagne with his saber, and someone—afterward, Pat couldn’t remember who—wondered if the same could be done with a bullet. Moments later, there was general agreement that they would spend the last few minutes of the century answering this vital question. The key to the gamekeeper’s shed wasn’t immediately to hand, so Mr. Atwood suggested Uncle Arthur’s old service pistol that was kept in a case in the library. One of the groundsmen was sent to fetch it before anyone could intervene.

By that time a great deal more wine had been consumed. Mrs. Atwood’s mind seemed to be running along the same lines as Pat’s. “I think that experiment is better left until you’re sober, Isaiah.”

“I’m quite sober enough,” said Mr. Atwood indignantly. “But it doesn’t need to be me.”

“Not Sandy,” Pat said at once. “And Mr. Gardiner, I don’t think you ought—”

“Women,” Mr. Gardiner muttered. “No sense of fun.”

Miss Carruth let out a giggle. Pat exchanged a swift, speaking glance with Mrs. Atwood, then sighed. “I’ll do it.”

She let the others choose the exact distance for the attempt, and they waited for the pistol to arrive. Sandy offered to hold the bottle while she shot. Pat refused, not because she worried about her aim but because, as she told him, a face full of shattered glass was no way to ring in the new year. So the table beside the brazier was cleared and carried out a little way from the onlookers.

Pat took a moment to look over the little pistol. It was an old Beaumont-Adams, antiquated but very well made. She’d fired similar models before, and it was a pleasure to see one kept in excellent condition. Finding Miss Carruth waiting at her elbow, Pat handed over her muff. "Thank you," she said.

"Aim true," said Miss Carruth, smiling. Her eyes were very bright, catching the light of the bonfire.

Pat turned away before she could be caught as well, raised the pistol, and fired.

The sharp retort came to her ears just before the pale cork disappeared into the dark. The champagne burst from the bottle's neck in a white spout, and Miss Carruth let out a delighted shriek. The gentlemen laughed uproariously as Mr. Atwood went running out to retrieve Pat's prize.

It hadn't been such a difficult shot. It was trickier because of the dim light, of course, but good night vision had more to do with luck than skill, so she didn't take much satisfaction in her success. Still, Mr. Atwood's face was alight with drunken good humor as he bowed low to present her with the bottle, and she couldn't help smiling in return. "You must have the first glass, Miss Merton."

"I will, thank you," she said. "But uncork another bottle. That one's cracked all to bits."

Another bottle was opened while she set the pistol down and they all crowded around with their glasses. By the time Pat was sipping her champagne--which turned out to be a very nice one, when it wasn't being violently mistreated--it lacked several minutes to midnight, and Uncle Arthur had everything arranged to his satisfaction.

Sandy had just poured another flute of champagne. "Come have a glass, sir!" he called.

"In a moment," said Uncle Arthur, bending over one of the fuses with his electric lantern. "I want to be clear-eyed for this. Who has the time?"

"Two minutes!" cried George Gardiner.

"Someone bring me the matchbook. Good--now all step back, smartly now. You'll want a view, and I don't want you in the way."

One minute, and Sandy slipped an arm about Pat's waist. "Happy New Year," he said low in her ear, raising his glass to hers. "To our future."

"And to the new century," she replied. Miss Carruth was standing just a few paces away, her face shadowed in the flickering light. Pat tried not to imagine her expression.

Thirty seconds, and a hush fell over them. Fifteen seconds, and the match was struck.

Ten seconds--they began to count down together, and Uncle Arthur touched his match to the first fuse. He worked quickly, darting across the ground ("Five!"), then rose to his full height ("Four!") and retreated smartly to a safe distance ("Three!"), near the spot where broken glass and champagne must still litter the snow. ("Two!")

"One!" Pat was about to say when the first of the fireworks caught. If anyone else finished the count, she couldn't hear it.

They erupted at first into a fountain of white and gold, much like the champagne, and low to the ground. Then a loud 'pop' carried over the crackling. There was a thin whistle, and two explosions of red shattered the velvet black of the sky above their heads. Sandy’s arm about Pat's waist tightened companionably and then released her, and she stepped forward, neck craning to watch the fire shower down above them.

She'd never seen fireworks so close. Once or twice she’d taken in a show, when she'd been in London for a royal birthday or some holiday or other; and every year at Guy Fawkes' growing up there had been some sparklers in the village square. But they’d never been right above her, so she could feel each explosion as much as she heard it, and so the ends of her eyelashes and the tip of her nose reflected a riot of color. Pat could still taste the champagne; she breathed in crisp winter air well-mixed with the acrid tang of gunpowder; it was 1900. She had a sense that the rest of the party was all milling around, trying to catch a better view and exclaiming over each fresh explosion, but she didn't let her attention fall from the sky. It felt like that perfect moment before a flawless shot, and she was happier to be alone in it.

And she knew if she dropped her eyes to earth, she might see how Fenella Carruth looked with _her_ eyelashes and face reflecting the glow of fireworks, and Pat thought she'd be better off not committing that particular sight to memory.

Uncle Arthur had promised the best for the last, and he didn’t disappoint. There was a flurry of emerald starbursts, then a curtain of shimmering, crackling gold closer to the ground; then a quick series of cracks, the telltale whine of the rockets, and finally three spectacular explosions high overhead, red and gold and violet filling the whole field of her vision. Pat gasped. She might even have cried aloud, but she couldn't hear it over the deafening thunder from above.

Then it was over. The light and noise both faded, leaving her ears ringing and her eyes too dazzled to see much in the relative dark of the fire. Mr. Atwood was saying something in a loud and pleased voice, but Pat couldn't hear him well enough to tell if he was addressing his wife or the company in general. She put out a hand and caught the sleeve of the coat beside her. She thought at first it was Sandy's, but slipping her hand along it she realized her mistake.

She blinked, eyes still adjusting. "Oh! I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said--of course it would be Miss Carruth. She was looking straight at Pat, now she could see that much, and she had not moved away. It was up to Pat to remove her hand. Her fingers were suddenly very cold. She couldn't remember where she'd left her hand muff.

"Damn it all, I've dropped my glass." Mr. Gardiner was bending over, peering at the ground. His foot came down in the snow, and there was a cracking sound. He swore again, then straightened with a muttered apology. “Good show, Art!” he shouted in the general direction where Uncle Arthur had retreated.

“Yes, well done, sir!” Sandy put in promptly. That told Pat where he was, and she made her way to his side amid the general applause. He grinned at her, teeth white in the dark, and reached for her hand.

“Is there more wine?” her aunt was asking. “I could do with something warm.”

“We ought to go back to the house,” said Mrs. Atwood. “Hot drinks and a fire would be just the thing.”

“I’ll have a glass of champagne with you before we do, Mr. Gardiner, if I may,” called Sandy. “We can’t put off your first toast of the century any longer.”

They all waited for a reply. It was strange, thought Pat, how deafening silence could be. The last echoes of the explosions had faded, and everything about them was muffled in a blanket of snow.

“I say, Gardiner!” said Mr. Atwood at last.

There was still no reply. Beside her, Sandy shifted uneasily.

Aunt Dora raised a tremulous voice. “Arthur?”

George Gardiner started forward. “Where is he?”

“Is he hurt?” Mrs. Atwood asked, a little sharp. “The fireworks—”

“He was well back when they went up,” said Sandy, quick and reassuring. “Mr. Gardiner, sir, are you there?” He dropped Pat’s hand and walked into the dark, skirting the edge of the spent explosives. “Sir—”

George Gardiner and Mr. Atwood both went after him, calling as they went. Their voices grew increasingly concerned. Pat had not meant to join them, but she’d seen Uncle Arthur back away from the fuses toward the spot where she’d aimed just a few minutes before. There was still enough light from the bonfire to see her way, so she set out herself, leaving Mrs. Atwood and Aunt Dora by the fire. The sound of light footfalls behind her said she was not alone. “Don’t go wandering off,” Pat said, more sharply than she’d meant to. It would be all they needed now for Miss Carruth to get herself lost, or slip on a patch of snow and have a bad fall.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Miss Carruth. “Was he near here?”

“A little farther to the right, I think—perhaps I’m wrong. You search closer to the fire and I’ll go along the edge of the woods.” Pat was a country girl at heart, and she knew how disconcerting and strange even familiar ground could become after nightfall. Still it surprised her how quickly her vision began to fail as she walked with the fire at her back. The snow ought to have been a clean canvas for anything upon it, but it faded to a dark and featureless gray that matched the sky. Pat slowed as she walked, hesitant to leave the others too far behind. “Uncle Arthur?” she tried, to no result.

There was a clank behind her, and as she turned she saw a beam of light swinging crazily up from the ground at Miss Carruth's feet. “I’ve found the electric lantern," she said, unusually subdued.

"Good, that'll be useful," Pat said briskly. "Shine it near the treeline, would you?"

Miss Carruth moved to obey, but then she let out a low, bitten-off exclamation that had Pat hurrying to her side. "Miss Merton--" she said, raising a hand as Pat approached.

"Uncle Arthur!” There was a long, dark form stretched out beneath them, a few yards down the knoll. "Hold that steady for me, would you? He's fallen--it may be uneven ground."

Miss Carruth caught hold of the lantern with both hands and pointed it straight at Uncle Arthur's prone form. "He's more than fallen," she said, tone a little unsteady. "Is that--I think it's blood."

"Oh, _damn_ ," Pat said, her stomach clenching. She raised her voice. "Over here, gentlemen." Then she moved forward, feeling her way through the powdery snow. "Uncle Arthur?”

She hadn't gone more than a few steps before Miss Carruth joined her, one arm slid tightly into Pat's; it steadied her, and the beam of the lamp before Pat's feet was very welcome as they felt their way down the slope. When she'd reached his side, she withdrew her arm and knelt, uncertain. "Uncle Arthur? Shine the light here, if you--oh _hell_ and damn! Don't look, Miss Carruth."

Too late, judging by the thin gasp and the sudden, involuntary dip of the lantern. Pat wished she'd been able to take her own warning. That brief moment of close illumination had been enough to show her the spatter of blood upon the snow, more purple-black than red. She wished even more she could believe he'd fallen and cracked his head open, but she knew a bullet hole when she saw one.

Her stomach turned, and she looked away to the first distraction that presented itself. Miss Carruth stood over her, clutching the lantern without directing the beam to any useful purpose. Pat rose and gripped her hands between her own, steadying the beam so it caught Miss Carruth’s throat and the underside of her chin, outlining the curve of one cheek. Her face was queerly misshapen by the light from beneath, and her fingers were trembling. "Is he--"

"Shot," Pat said. She didn't mean to say it so baldly. The men had come up beside them just in time to overhear.

"Of course he isn't," said Mr. Atwood. "Come away from there, Miss Merton. Has he fallen or had a fit, do you suppose?”

Sandy had bent over the figure on the ground. "Oh, God," he said suddenly. "Oh my God."

The shock had not left her, but she was settling into it, and Pat thought she could push it aside enough to be useful. Her stomach was still roiling, but that couldn't be helped. "Yes, I think we had better go back to the house. I'll see to my aunt. Sandy, can you stay with--with my uncle?"

Mr. Gardiner had dropped down beside his brother and was pulling at his shoulder, saying “Art?” in a confused sort of voice. Pat was about to say that he had better not be moved when Mr. Gardiner succeeded in rolling Uncle Arthur to one side, and he flopped over, limbs somehow stiff and limp at the same time.

Pat hissed in a quick, cold breath and took the electric lantern from Miss Carruth. "Sandy. I'll send one of the groundsmen to the village. You will stay here, won't you?"

He blinked up at her. "To the village?"

"For a doctor," she said, "and for the police."

He stared a moment longer, then gave a jerky nod. She shoved the lantern into his hands, took Miss Carruth by the arm, and began to march her back toward the bonfire where Mrs. Atwood and Aunt Dora were waiting close together.

"Are you all right?" Miss Carruth asked, very quietly, before they came into earshot. She was shivering violently.

"Not really," Pat said.

Miss Carruth's arm tightened on hers, and then they had come up to the older women. Aunt Dora turned a searching face to Pat, who realized she'd no idea what to say.

"Oh, Mrs. Gardiner," said Miss Carruth at once, sounding rather brittle but not at all hesitant. "Do let us go back up to the house and wait. Sandy has everything in hand, but they will be wanting something hot and strong to drink, it is so horribly cold now."

"What's happened?" asked Mrs. Atwood, very cold and clear. She was looking past them at Mr. Gardiner, who had come huffing up behind them.

"Oh God, Dora," he said, and Pat had to bite her lip to keep from cursing him. He came forward and took his sister-in-law's hands. "Dora, it's Art.”

 _Of course it's bloody Art, you idiot, shut your drunken mouth,_ Pat did not say. Instead she broke in: "Miss Carruth is right--let us go back to the house. Here, Aunt, let me--"

But Aunt Dora was staring at Mr. Gardiner. "Where is he?"

"Dead," said Mr. Gardiner, which was bad enough; when he added, "Shot," in the same dazed tones, it was far worse.

Mrs. Atwood drew an audible breath. "Shot? How?"

"In the usual way, I expect," Pat found herself saying. Miss Carruth shot her a look, and she pulled herself together. "Aunt Dora, do let's go back to the house, you must sit down." She looked like death, swaying slightly on her feet. Pat took her firmly out of Mr. Gardiner's hands.

He stepped back as though uncertain what to do with himself, then staggered, his foot sliding on something in the snow.

Pat looked away from him in irritation, sliding her arm about Aunt Dora's waist. "Mrs. Atwood, help me take her inside."

"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Atwood. "And hot drinks, as you said. At once."

Mr. Gardiner had bent over, looking at whatever had tripped him, and now he interfered with Pat's plan to ignore him by swearing loudly. Aunt Dora flinched in Pat's arm as though she'd been struck. Mr. Gardiner reached his hand down for the object on the ground.

"Don't move it!" Miss Carruth said. There was enough sharp command in her voice that Mr. Gardiner froze. Then, before the rest of them could react, she let out a girlish little moan. "Oh, it's too horrible, Mr. Gardiner, please let it alone."

"What is it, Pat?" asked her aunt, face turned away. She was shaking.

"Nothing," Pat said. Her own voice sounded rather queer to her ears. "Come along." And she led her aunt away, Mrs. Atwood supporting her on the other side, leaving the pistol where it lay in the snow beside Pat’s own fur muff.

*******

The doctor was sent for, and the police along with him. Before they arrived Pat took her aunt upstairs to bed and sat holding her hand until the trembling had subsided and she had drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She came downstairs into the small drawing room where everyone else was standing or sitting about to find Sandy just come inside. His face still red from the change in temperature, but there was an unpleasant greyish-white beneath. "Pat," he said, then took her in his arms. Pat thought she ought to feel reassured, but she only felt vaguely ill. The feeling grew no better or worse when he released her.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"They've gone out to look at the scene." He was attempting to sound brusque and businesslike and not doing a very good job of it. "The constable has sent for his superior. I expect they'll want to interview all of us."

"Yes," Pat said, looking over the rest of the guests with a jaundiced eye. Mr. Gardiner still appeared somewhat the worse for drink, and the brandy he was nursing in a trembling hand was unlikely to help matters. Mr. and Mrs. Atwood were sitting together, for once; she had permitted him a hand upon her arm, though it was anyone's guess which of them it was intended to comfort.

Miss Carruth had been standing by the window overlooking the ridge, one hand holding the curtain to one side. She’d turned as Pat came in and let it fall, and now she gestured at the sofa.

"Miss Merton," she said, "do come and sit down. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." She did take the seat that had been offered, and she was rather glad of it than otherwise when Miss Carruth sank down beside her. Gladder still when she did not take her hand or offer any fluttering sympathy. “The police are still outside?”

"Yes. They've brought more lanterns and a few men from the village. Examining footprints, I think, before everything melts tomorrow."

"I hope they've had a good look just at the treeline," Sandy said. "Anyone could have come up there, and we'd never have seen a thing."

"Don't be an ass," Pat said tiredly, rubbing at her eyes. She’d had plenty of time to think while she put her aunt to bed, and she hadn’t come to any comfortable conclusions. ”Can you imagine someone sneaking through the woods, waiting for the fireworks, and hoping Uncle Arthur would happen to walk their way at just the right moment?"

Sandy looked at her uneasily. Mr. Atwood said, “But someone from the village, surely. Or one of the servants.”

“I suppose so, if you think one of them could have come up to stand among us without anyone noticing. We were distracted, but not that distracted.” Sandy put a quelling hand on her shoulder, which she ignored just as she ignored the growing tension in the room. “And I left that pistol lying beside the champagne glasses. I didn’t drop it on the ground.”

“Think what you’re saying,” Sandy said.

“I am,” Pat said, “believe me. It was one of us who shot him, and we all know that perfectly well.”

There was a deathly pause. Sandy, who would usually have stepped in with a self-deprecating joke, was silent.

Instead, inevitably, it was broken by Miss Carruth. “Oh Miss Merton, you can’t think so!”

Pat would have told her to drop the affect, but Mrs. Atwood got there first. “Will you shut your mouth, you idiot child.” She sounded tired, and resigned besides. “Of course she’s right. No doubt the police will realize it soon enough, if they haven’t already. I for one am going to bed. I suggest the rest of you do the same.” And there was nothing anyone could say to that.

*******

Pat woke much later than usual with a headache that made her wish she’d overindulged with the rest of them the night before. At least then she’d have earned it. She rang for tea and gave herself a blessed half hour of complete solitude before pulling on a dressing gown and going dutifully to her aunt. The visit was unproductive but seemed to last forever; it was almost noon when she left, and a glance out the window showed the snow already melted and the hard ground turning to mud. So much for her glorious walk. It was time, whether she wanted it or not, to go downstairs and face the others.

That proved harder than she would have expected. The house was deathly quiet, the library and the sitting room both deserted. She looked in at the breakfast room next, where despite the hour there were still some dishes on the sideboard. Miss Carruth and Mr. Atwood were sitting at opposite ends of the table when she stepped inside. Both of them looked up. Mr. Atwood must have been hoping she was someone else, because he lost interest at once and stared back down at his plate. It was still mostly full, and he looked a bit sick.

Miss Carruth, at least, seemed glad to see her. “Tell me what’s happening,” Pat said. There was coffee, thank God. She poured herself a cup and closed her eyes.

“They wired London last night,” Miss Carruth said. She was pitching her voice low. Pat couldn’t tell if that was out of respect for the dead or for Mr. Atwood’s hangover, but either way it was soothing. “A detective inspector took the early train up. How is your aunt?” There was no laughter in her eyes now. Pat found she missed it.

“Shaken.” She’d spent most of the morning alternating between sobbing into a well-wrung handkerchief and responding to Pat’s conversation with listless monosyllables. “I think she’s asleep again. I suppose they’ll want to interview her.”

“I’ve had my turn already. Most of us have, but Sandy persuaded them not to bother you until later.”

That was kind of him. Pat ought to find him and ask how he was bearing up, but, she realized, she was hungry. She downed the rest of her coffee, poured another cup, and filled her plate.

Mr. Atwood made a sound of distress at the sight and left the room, his own plate still untouched. “How was the interview?” Pat asked, digging into the cold eggs.

Miss Carruth wrinkled her nose. “About as unpleasant as you’re probably expecting. How long have you known Mr. Gardiner, how well do you know his wife, how did you receive the invitation—well, I fudged a bit on that one, but I don’t think you can _blame_ me for not telling them my father’s housekeeper caught me in the greenhouse with my hand up a schoolfriend’s skirts, and now I’m not trusted to stay at his place alone while he’s overseas.”

Pat choked on her eggs.

Miss Carruth waited until she could speak again, then said apologetically, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful of the circumstances. It’s only that that _is_ what happened, you see, and I don’t mind if you know it, but I don’t want some detective inspector hearing all about it. Even if he is young and rather good-looking. If you go in for that sort of thing.” That damned eyebrow of her rose very slowly.

“Are you always this provoking?” Pat demanded.

Miss Carruth gave a considering purse of her lips. “Not always. I don’t think. I don’t try to be, that is, unless it’s with someone I particularly dislike. Or someone I particularly like,” she added, “when they are looking very tired, and when I want to see them smile.”

Pat was not inclined to smile. She did let out a snort and turned back to her eggs and toast.

“Other than that,” Miss Carruth continued, “most of their questions were about last night. When the pistol was brought out, who I had seen handling it. Where we were all standing during the fireworks. When I had last seen Mr. Gardiner, and what I saw when we—” Her voice broke a little. Pat found she was glad to know Miss Carruth was genuinely upset. Not that she wanted her to be unhappy, precisely, but it reassured her to find something behind the levity. “When we found him. I don’t think I was particularly helpful.”

“I’m sure you were more helpful than the gentlemen, Miss Carruth,” Pat said, pushing her fork over the plate. “As drunk as they were, I doubt any of them was paying attention to anything useful.”

“You realize that narrows the field,” Miss Carruth said quietly.

“It does,” Pat agreed, “as long as none of them was pretending to drink more than he really did.”

“Quite.” Miss Carruth sat with her in a surprisingly companionable silence—or as companionable as it could be, while they each considered which of their fellow guests had recently committed murder—and watched Pat work on her breakfast. “You know,” she said finally, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you ought to start calling me Fen.”

“What, now that we’ve found a dead body together?”

“I meant,” said Miss Carruth—said Fen—“now that you know all about my youthful indiscretions. But that too, I suppose.”

Now Pat was beginning to smile, and she didn’t even feel the need to fight it. “Youthful! You’re still not even twenty.”

“No,” she agreed, a catlike grin curving her lips, “but I didn’t say I was done committing them.”

When Pat got up a few minutes later, ready to face the firing squad—and wasn’t that a poor choice of words—it was with a lighter heart than she’d expected.

The sight of Sandy’s face as she was ushered into her Uncle Arthur’s private study put paid to that. If Mr. Atwood looked as though he’d felt ill, Sandy looked as though he’d _been_ ill. The detective inspector was also waiting there, tall and thin and darkly good-looking. If you went in for that sort of thing. It had never been Pat’s type, even setting aside—but in any case, the introductions were performed and condolences were offered as though by rote, and Sandy declared his intentions of being present during the interview.

The detective inspector seemed displeased about that, but he had already agreed on the condition that Sandy didn’t interrupt to make corrections, ask questions, or offer additional information at any point. Pat herself tried to protest, but Sandy seemed to have decided to indulge his stubborn streak, and she concluded it would be faster just to go along with it.

The first questions were exactly what Fen had said: simple background on Pat’s relationship with her aunt and uncle, and then a more complicated discussion of the past night’s events. Try as she might, Pat couldn’t remember all the details of the conversation that had led to the gun being brought out. “I know it was Mr. Atwood who suggested the pistol in the library,” she said, “but I don’t think the whole idea was his in the first place. I wasn’t listening very closely.”

“And this was a gun you were all aware of?”

“I was, at least. It was my uncle’s service weapon. He keeps—he kept it in good condition. But there are plenty of other guns in the house and in the gamekeeper’s shed.”

“Had you handled it before?”

“Not that particular weapon, no.”

“But you are quite comfortable with firing guns in general.”

Sandy was radiating tension beside her. Pat carefully didn’t look at him, but she met the inspector’s gaze squarely. “Yes, very comfortable. It wouldn’t have been my weapon of choice. I prefer a shotgun. Though rifle hunting also has its charms.”

“I understand you’re an excellent shot.”

“I am.”

A faint smile flitted across the inspector’s face. “I do appreciate a woman with confidence. All right; you were given the pistol, you lined up the shot, you fired. Was it a difficult shot?”

“Not particularly, aside from the bad light. The champagne bottle wasn’t too far from where I was standing.”

“And about how much farther away from you—from all of you—was your uncle standing during the fireworks?”

“I’ve been trying to work that out,” Pat said. She had prepared for this line of questioning. “I didn’t see him after he set them off, but judging from where he fell, I’d say it was somewhat farther. Still well within range. And as I said, the main difficulty with the bottle was the light. There was plenty of that once the fireworks started.”

“And you would have been able to make out Mr. Gardiner if you’d been looking for him?”

“If he was standing near where I had last seen him, then yes, I think he would have been clearly visible. But I can’t say for certain, as I was watching the fireworks, ”

“Understood, Miss Merton. I realize I am asking you to speculate, here, but it’s important. Could you have made the shot that killed him?”

“Assuming it came from the group where I was standing? Then—yes, I should say so.” Sandy made a noise, which she ignored. “It wouldn’t have been easy, but a good enough marksman would have been able to do it.”

“It would have taken some nerve,” the inspector said. “There wouldn’t have been time to prepare. Just enough to see an opportunity and take it.”

“I agree. It would have taken nerve and strong motivation. I hope I have the first of those, as I think you’re suggesting, but I’ve no idea why you think I would want Uncle Arthur dead.”

“Miss Merton, are you aware of the terms of your uncle’s will? I’ll put that down as a no,” he said, when she just stared at him. He reached behind the desk and produced a neat stack of paper. “In cases like this one, when there’s so much money concerned, we start with the inheritance as a matter of course. This is a copy of Mr. Gardiner’s will. You’re welcome to read it, but I’ll summarize—there are minor bequests to servants, organizations, and charities. The usual thing. A somewhat larger bequest to the brother of the deceased and a comfortable annuity for his wife. On the next page—allow me.” Her hands had gone numb, and he had to rearrange the sheets for her. “Here it is. The residue of the estate, including all his shares in the rail company, is bequeathed to his niece, Patricia Merton.”

She had to read the last paragraph over twice.

“I take it this is news to you.”

“I told you she had no idea!”

“Mr. Meriwether, if you can’t restrain yourself I will ask you to leave. Miss Merton. This is the first you’ve seen of your uncle’s will?”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “I—why would he do that?”

“A question I’ll certainly be trying to answer. He never discussed the matter with you? No. This was prepared and signed in July of this—July of last year, my apologies. Can you think of anything that would have precipitated it? Any change in your relationship or conversations regarding money?”

“I spent a weekend with him and my aunt in the Cotswolds at the end of June,” said Pat, thinking furiously. “We had some good shooting. I—I don’t remember what we discussed. Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

“If it helps,” said the inspector, leaning back in his seat, “everyone who was there last night is a suspect. But you seem like an intelligent woman, Miss Merton—who would you investigate first?”

She held herself together through the rest of the questions, Sandy’s repeated insistence that she hadn’t known about the will, and the inspector’s request that she remain in the area until the inquest was complete. It wasn’t until she had been ushered out into the hall with Sandy at her heels, and the study door was closed behind them, that she broke.

Pat turned on Sandy so quickly he took a step back and nearly fell into the door.

“You knew,” she said.

He put his hands up—she couldn’t tell whether to reach for her or to ward her off—and then let them fall. His face was very white. “Pat. Calm down and listen to me.”

“Don’t pretend you’re being the reasonable one.” The fury had settled like a knot in her gut. “He had the will drawn up in July, just before that dinner party. I could count on one hand the conversations we’d had before then, but suddenly you thought I was the most fascinating thing in the world. Did he tell you?”

“No, of course not. I—” Sandy broke off, high spots of color rising in his cheeks. “I was getting some papers from his office. The will was just lying there on the desk. I know I shouldn’t have looked, but I was curious.”

“And then you set about seducing me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! You knew I had ambitions at his company. I wanted a wife, someone sensible and reliable. Someone I could be _friends_ with. You didn’t want to be trotting around at the heels of stuck-up widows the rest of your life. Neither of us thought it was a romance for the ages.”

“No,” Pat agreed, “but I did think we were both being honest about that.”

That deflated all his indignation. He rubbed one hand across his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. But as much as I’ve bungled this—and whatever else you think of me—I mean to stand by you now. I’ll swear up and down you never knew you had a reason to kill him.”

“You knew, though,” she said, and had the gratification of seeing that color drain back out of his cheeks. She laughed. “Don’t worry, I know you didn’t do it. You’re not that good of a shot.” And on that bleakly satisfying note, Pat turned and stalked away.

*******

If she stayed pent up in that house another hour, Pat wasn’t going to be answerable for her actions. Fortunately, there were alternatives, and she suited up for the outdoors.

What she wanted was a long, brisk march to work off all her anger. There she was out of luck: it was just warm enough that the snow melt hadn’t frozen yet, and the ground was a dangerous mix of mud and sodden, dead grass. That meant she had to choose her footing carefully. At first this frustrated her beyond belief, but soon she began to revel in it, sweating under her coat with the exertion. One sort of physical effort seemed to work just as well as another, and this way she had barely any space to think.

She struck out west, through the valley she was sure would be a gorgeous stretch of green come spring and was currently a dispiriting brown, and turned around when the sun was at its highest. Pat knew better than to get caught out after dark. By the time she’d struggled back up a rise and spotted the house several hundred yards away, her wool stockings were soaked through at the tops of her boots, and she was beginning to think wistfully of a good fire and a hot cup of tea. And food. Food was becoming a necessity.

Then she caught sight of a figure standing alone at the tall ridge of their shooting spot. It was a woman; not her aunt, she was sure, and she was just about to put it down as Mrs. Atwood when it turned toward Pat and waved.

“What on earth,” Pat said to nobody in particular as Miss Carruth came hurrying down the slope to meet her. Pat picked up her own pace. “Slow down!” she called. “You’ll have a nasty fall otherwise.”

“I hope you don’t speak from experience,” Fen said, as soon as they were close enough to speak without shouting. “Your skirt is mud to the thigh. I’m exhausted just looking at you.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Hoping to find you,” she said. “I—oh, curse these boots!” She stumbled the last few feet between them, and Pat caught her elbow to keep her from sliding any farther. “I was worried.”

“You’ve heard,” Pat said.

“Yes.”

“Did Sandy—”

Fen made an impatient noise. “Goodness, no. It was George Gardiner who started telling us all. Sandy followed it up by saying to anyone who would listen that you were innocent as a lamb, and then when Mrs. Atwood told him to stop being so tiresome he went to sulk in private.”

Pat was amused in spite of herself. “What did Mr. Gardiner have to say about it?”

“Oh, he’s aggrieved dear old Arthur had so little consideration for his own flesh and blood. And, to be charitable, possibly he’s actually grieving as well, but the disappointment’s done nothing for his personality.”

What with the double shock of finding herself the likeliest suspect and realizing what Sandy had known all along, Pat hadn’t yet begun to grapple with the idea of the inheritance itself. Neither had she considered Mr. Gardiner’s reaction, or—oh God, her aunt. “I suppose it’s a great deal of money.”

“Oh yes, I should say so,” said Fen, watching her closely. “Assuming he has a controlling interest in the rail company, those shares are half a million at least—and I’d put it closer to seven hundred thousand, judging by last year’s estimates.”

Pat gaped at her.

“You really didn’t know?” Fen asked. She sounded as though she found Pat’s ignorance thoroughly charming.

Pat pulled herself together. “How do _you_ know?”

“Oh, Daddy always saves the financial section of the Times for me,” she said breezily. “It’s interesting reading. Almost as good as those adventure novels.”

Pat opened her mouth to give her opinion of those adventure novels, but what came out instead was, “Do you think I killed him?”

“I think you could have,” Fen said frankly. The tilt of her head and her bright eyes made Pat think of a sparrow. “I don’t think you _did_.”

Pat smiled. It was a rather wretched smile; she could tell even without seeing it. “Thank you for that, I suppose.”

Fen’s smile was much better, somehow bright without any girlish sweetness to it. “That was a compliment.”

Pat laughed. “That you think I could shoot my own uncle in cold blood?”

“That I think you have a great deal more nerve than those idiot men, for all their airs. I think you could shoot a man if you had to, with no more than minutes to make up your mind, and walk away without turning a hair.” Pat hadn’t let go of her elbow, and she was standing very close, her gaze intent. Improbably, she had bothered to apply that heady perfume. “But you wouldn’t do it for money.”

Perhaps it was the perfume, or just the exhaustion, that made Pat’s head swim and her tongue loose. “I’m marrying for money.”

Fen snorted. It was not at all lovely or birdlike, and it should have broken the spell, but Pat just found herself following the faint motion of her chest under the double-breasted coat. “I don’t know what Sandy told you, but he’s not wealthy.”

“I don’t mean wealth, I mean security and comfort. It was a practical decision, and I don’t expect you to understand it.”

Those bright eyes darkened. “I don’t think that’s entirely fair.”

“And I don’t think you _do_ understand me, Miss Carruth.”

“Fen.”

“I didn’t know this was coming to me,” Pat said impatiently. “I didn’t have the—the leisure to run around committing indiscretions. I never had the chance—” Something clenched in her gut, and she had to force the breath past it. “What was I meant to do with my life?”

Fen’s perfectly-arched eyebrows arched farther. “What do you want to do with it? Keep a charming house, raise a few adorable children, wait for your respectable husband to come home every night from his soulless job—”

It was too much, coming from someone who spent her days aping a brainless socialite. “ _Fuck_ you,” Pat said.

“Oh, please do,” said Fen without missing a beat, so Pat seized her by the face and kissed her.

She nearly pulled back at once. She _should_ to have pulled back at once, but Fen had come eagerly to her, not with the shy and melting sweetness she’d always been told a woman was meant to have but with a brazen insistence that Pat ought to have expected and, in the event, didn’t quite know what to do with. Her lips were soft, though, impossibly so—and if they were cold to begin with they warmed quickly—and the curve of her jaw felt so _right_ under Pat’s palm—

Pat did pull back, eventually. The scent of that musky perfume seemed to pull along with her. Fen stayed where she was, leaning forward in the most provoking way, and blinked again. This time it was slow and deliberate. “Well,” she said, voice half an octave lower than it had been just a moment before. “I never would have guessed that positing you as a cold-hearted killer would finally do the trick. I must keep that in mind.”

Pat wanted to say something repressive, but her breath was coming in quick puffs of mist, and she could hardly think over the roaring in her ears. “You’re appalling,” she managed at last.

Fen grinned at her, all mischief. Pat reached up to touch one of those dimples. She couldn’t remember having decided to do it. She just thought, _I want to feel that against my glove,_ and then she did. Fen’s cheek shifted under her fingertips when she said, “I’ve been desperate to kiss you since we left London.”

“What stopped you?”

“I wasn’t entirely certain how you’d take it. And there’s the inconvenient fact that you are—are you still?—engaged to my cousin.”

Pat had been on the verge of swaying forward, trying to capture those lips again. Now she bit her own lip. “Shit.” She stepped back. “Shit. Fucking—” Her head jerked toward the house as she became aware of another reason for alarm. “Did anyone see us?”

“You do have a dreadful tongue on you,” Fen said admiringly. “I’d like to see what else you can do with it. Oh, don’t look so stern! Nobody could see anything from all the way back there, and you’re the only one fool enough to go hiking on a day like this.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yes, of course. Remember I’ve much more practice at this than you do.” Her smile faded. “Don’t marry Sandy.”

“What?”

“Don’t do it. Not because he lied to you, or not just because of that. Do you _want_ the charming house and the adorable children?”

Pat wanted to protest that they’d only known one another a few days, and it was outside of enough that Fen thought she’d worked out everything Pat might or not want in that time. But the devil of it was, she wasn’t wrong. “I may not have the opportunity for either,” Pat said. “Not if I have to pencil in a hanging before the wedding date.”

“Don’t say that.” Fen shivered in her pretty, inadequate coat, and Pat reached for her arm.

“Come along. It’s getting dark.”

They walked for a few moments in silence, Fen leaning into Pat whenever she started to lose her footing. Pat thought she was rather overdoing it, but she wasn’t inclined to complain.

“Money is the obvious motive,” Fen said suddenly, as though continuing a conversation. “But could you kill someone because you _weren’t_ going to get the money? Not you specifically, of course.”

“You mean Mr. Gardiner?” Pat asked in surprise. “I doubt he’d have the stomach for it.”

“He’s one possibility.”

“Aunt Dora?” Pat laughed aloud. “I doubt whether she’s shot a gun in her life. She hates the outdoors, hates sport, all of it. I don’t think she likes to come here at all. Have they told her about the will?” Pat didn’t know how she was going to face her.

“I expect she knows by now.” Fen shot her a sideways glance. “Do you know why he left you the money?”

“I think so,” said Pat. “He had a habit of treating Aunt Dora and her interests as—decorative, I suppose you’d say? He put a high value on competence, and he liked to tell me I was the only useful person he’d met in her family.”

“Competence,” Fen said thoughtfully.

“He had a very narrow definition of it. I don’t think he’d have included you in that category, for example.”

“No, I expect not! You won’t be offended, I hope—I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, and I certainly don’t think he deserved to be murdered—but your uncle was a bit of a bastard, wasn’t he?” Pat had been thinking much the same thing. “Don’t worry,” Fen added lightly. “I won’t say that at dinner.”

“You must be joking,” Pat said in horror. “We won’t be expected to dine, will we?”

“What, just because our host has been murdered and one of us did it? How beautifully unsophisticated you are.” Fen softened this by tucking her arm closer into Pat’s elbow. “I must think what I have to wear.”

*******

They did all troop downstairs for dinner, like very well-behaved guests and murder suspects, and it was as grim an experience as Pat would have expected.

Sandy kept trying to catch her eye. At least he had the sense not to try protesting either her innocence or his intention of standing by her. Mr. Gardiner drank far too much, and it was only Fen’s deft handling of the desultory conversation that kept him away from the topics of murder and wills. Mr. Atwood looked as ill as ever—he couldn’t still be hung over, could he?—and Mrs. Atwood announced their regretful but firm intention of leaving on the first train the next day. Pat couldn’t blame her.

Only Aunt Dora failed to join them. Pat had paid her a dutiful visit as soon as she was washed up from her hike. The reception has been as cold as she’d dreaded. Mrs. Gardiner had stopped short of any accusations of actual murder, but she had made it quite clear that Pat was a grasping opportunist, that Mrs. Gardiner ought to have expected no better from her mother’s daughter—and Pat had rather lost her temper at that point. So it had come as an immense relief when their hostess pled the perfectly reasonable excuse of mourning her husband and elected to eat alone in her own room.

Dinner ground to its agonizing close, and the ladies left the men to their port. None of them seem to find the prospect all that appetizing. Sandy shot Pat a desperate glance as she rose from the table, and she felt almost guilty leaving him in that company.

The three women had no sooner left them than Mrs. Atwood let out an explosive sigh. “My God, but I’ll be glad to be out of here.” She gave Pat a look of apology. “I’m sorry to leave you, Miss Merton, but they said we weren’t needed for the inquest, and under the circumstances—”

“No, I quite understand,” said Pat gloomily.

“Oh do let’s talk of something else!” Fen exclaimed. “Of course it’s all any of us can think about, but I feel certain Mr. Gardiner wouldn’t have wanted us to sit about being miserable.”

Mrs. Atwood let out a skeptical huff. “If you can suggest a better topic, I’m eager to hear it.”

“Shooting,” Fen said readily.

“Good lord, girl, that’s not a change of subject.”

“No, not _that_ sort!” Fen let out a giddy, rather awkward giggle. “Only I’ve been meaning to ask Pat when she took up the hobby. It is such a terribly odd and fascinating thing for a woman to do.”

“I was young,” Pat said, taken aback. Fen was watching her with the wide-eyed interest she seemed to slip on as easily as a glove. “Ten or eleven, I suppose? We lived on a country estate that my father managed. There was excellent hunting, and he liked to take my brothers. I kept trying to talk him into teaching me, but in the end it was the oldest of us who showed me the ropes. Henry, was his name. He was six years older than me.” She heard her voice thicken just speaking of him. It had not been so long since they’d received word from his commanding officer. “He borrowed one of the shotguns and took me out while my father was busy. I think he was hoping the noise and the shock of the recoil would frighten me off, but I loved it.”

Fen made an encouraging noise, hands crossed prettily over her knees as she leaned in. She had taken the chair opposite the couch where Pat and Mrs. Atwood sat. “And your father, did he object?”

Pat smiled at the memory. “He was furious. Kept Henry to his room for a week. But I had a taste for it, and I hadn’t after all blown my head off, so my parents agreed I should learn properly if I was going to run around behind their backs either way. I was better than the rest of them by the time I was sixteen myself. The boys all pooled their money a couple of years ago and got me that shotgun you were using yesterday, as a goodbye gift just before Henry and Benjamin joined up.”

“Oh, I do wish I had brothers like that! I’ve only the one, and he’s a dreadful bore, only interested in the law, which I’m sure is a very worthy subject, but it’s not as though I’d want him to teach me about it even if he was willing.” She laughed, inviting Pat and Mrs. Atwood in on the joke. “And you, Mrs. Atwood—was it a brother who taught you, or some other male relation?”

Mrs. Atwood had been smiling rather vacantly as though counting the minutes until she could claim to be done in for the evening. “What’s that?”

“How you learned to shoot yourself. Was it a childhood hobby?”

“Not particularly,” Mrs. Atwood replied, her eyes trained on Fen with an odd curiosity. “Just something I picked up over the years.”

“But you must be quite good at it, to compete in the Ladies’ All England.”

“I think you misheard my husband,” said Mrs. Atwood. “I serve on the board.”

“Oh, perhaps I did mishear. Did you never compete at all?”

“Once or twice. That was some time ago.”

“And you did very well, I’m sure.”

“I do not quite recall,” Mrs. Atwood said. There was nothing vacant about her expression now.

“I am sure there must be records,” Fen said cheerfully, “or that Mr. Atwood would remember! I think it’s an adorably eccentric shared interest for a couple, and you know a common hobby is _such_ a good foundation for mutual attraction. Was that how you met Mr. Gardiner?”

Mrs. Atwood’s mouth opened to speak, but she visibly changed her mind about what to say at the last moment. “There you certainly did mishear. My husband knew poor Arthur at school. That was how we met.”

“But how you got to know him better, I mean,” Fen said, those bright brown eyes still quite guileless. “You _did_ know him very well, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Atwood looked at her in silence, and then she began slowly to smile. It was not a smile Pat found at all reassuring. “You little hussy,” she said with great precision. “You’re not quite as much an idiot as you make yourself out to be, are you? But not quite so clever as you think. What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Nothing that will surprise you,” Fen replied, seemingly unconcerned. “Only to confirm my suspicions that you were the one who killed poor Arthur.”

Pat’s mouth fell open, but neither of them was paying any attention to her.

Mrs. Atwood laughed. “I can’t even muster up any offense at that. It’s too ridiculous. You think my shooting record is some sort of proof?”

“Oh, of course not,” Fen said. “But it does show that Miss Merton wasn’t the only one who could have done it. That’s what occurred to me earlier, after a most interesting conversation with Pat herself.” Her gaze flicked briefly in Pat’s direction, warming slightly as it did. “It took nerve, a great deal of it, and quick thinking. Even if you planned the whole show with the pistol and the champagne from the start (and I don’t quite see how you could have) rather than just taking advantage of the situation, you still had to pick up the gun and shoot a man with half a dozen witnesses right around you.”

“You forget that those half dozen witnesses had just as much opportunity as I did.”

Fen pressed her lips together and made a dubious humming noise. “I suppose one of the gentlemen _might_ have been pretending to be far drunker than he really was. It would have been clever of him! But back to the question of nerve, hope you won’t be offended when I say Mr. Atwood is a dear man, but I don’t think he has it in him. I wouldn’t guess it of Sandy, either. Anyway if he was going to kill Arthur Gardiner, he ought to have waited until after the wedding. As for Mr. George Gardiner—and I suppose Mrs. Gardiner, for that matter—well, can you imagine either of them carrying it off?”

“You’re displaying unexpected depths, Miss Carruth,” said Mrs. Atwood, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’re the one we ought to be considering.”

Fen gave a gurgling laugh. “What an idea! I’d only met Mr. Gardiner two days before. And while I must say I think him a rather unpleasant sort of man, now I know how he conducted himself, I had no reason to want him dead.”

“No,” Mrs. Atwood agreed calmly. “As it’s been established, Miss Merton has by far the most convincing motive.”

“Though she didn’t _know_ she had it,” Fen said. “Though I suppose that’s hard to prove. Mr. Gardiner was certainly rather quiet about the inheritance. I wonder if he saw the secret as a great joke—that would have been in character. I am very good at grasping people’s character,” she added confidingly. “Anyway, one can certainly see why he wouldn’t have told his wife and brother about it. Though he might have told his mistress.”

Into the silence following this last remark came the gentlemen, filing one after another into the evening room. Sandy was first, and he looked desperately relieved to have left the dining room. At least, he did until he’d absorbed Pat’s and Mrs. Atwood’s expressions. “All’s well, I hope,” he said in a weak impression of his usual bluff good humor.

Mrs. Atwood rose, with pointed dignity, to her feet. “Miss Carruth has just treated us to the most extraordinary theory. No doubt she’ll be happy to entertain you with it, but I’m afraid I must say good night.”

“Do stay a moment longer,” Fen urged her. “I only want to confirm a few things with Mr. Atwood. Or we can wait for the police to sort it out, but an affair that’s gone on as long as this, well. Surely your husband has noticed?”

Mrs. Atwood’s back went very straight. Atwood closed his eyes.

“What’s that?” demanded George Gardiner, looking at Fen with confusion and interest.

“The affair Mrs. Atwood was carrying on with our late host,” Fen explained, turning to him as the most likely audience. “I was just wondering if it was quite as secret as she was hoping.”

“Good God,” said Sandy, “ are you serious?”

“It’s a lie,” said Mr. Atwood; he was as sickly pale as he’d been all day, but his cheeks had begun to redden.

“I’m sure you would like to tell the inspector so,” Fen said, “but _I_ was planning to tell him about how I saw your wife entering Arthur Gardiner’s room the first night I was here. I have such trouble sleeping in unfamiliar houses, you see, and—”

“A lie,” Mr. Atwood said again, more forcefully this time. “I was with her the whole night.”

“The police may even believe that,” Fen said encouragingly. “They are just about as likely to believe that I saw her drop the pistol on the ground as the fireworks were ending.” Sandy sucked in a hard, painful-sounding breath. “I didn’t quite like to _say_ so before, but I’d much rather the right person be arrested than Miss Merton. It’s occurred to me that there are ever so many reasons a woman would murder the man she took to her bed. If he was still refusing to leave his wife after years together, for example—or if he had just left his entire fortune to someone entirely different, which in my opinion shows a great deal of disregard for the wife and the mistress both—”

“It’s not true,” said Mr. Atwood. “She never killed him. I did it myself.”

“Shut your fool mouth,” Mrs. Atwood snapped.

Her husband was still looking at Fen, his voice gaining speed and desperation both. “I knew he was sleeping with Gabriella—God, I’d known it for years. So I killed him, and it will be your word against—”

“Idiot!” Mrs. Atwood said, more loudly this time, and he did shut his mouth. “She’s made it all up. Don’t play her stupid little game.”

“I don’t call murder ‘little’,” Fen said. She’d tilted her head to the side as she gazed up at Mrs. Atwood in a now-familiar attitude. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t much like this game. But I’m not the one who started it.”

Mrs. Atwood shook her head. “I don’t know how you think this will go. You’ve no proof.”

“No,” Fen agreed, “but I’ve a great deal more information now than the police had earlier today, haven’t I? And if it’s an affair of long standing, then there’s bound to be evidence. But really, I think you’ll find the most difficult bit is that your husband is cleverer than _you_ think, and he knows perfectly well what happened last night. I honestly don’t believe he’ll stand up very long under police questioning once they know what to ask. Shall we call the inspector back in?”

Mrs. Atwood regarded her silently for a long moment, and then she drew herself up to her full height. “Do as you like,” she said in a voice that chilled the room. “I’ve no intention of listening to more of this.” And she swept away without a backward glance.

*******

The inspector came and went. The Atwoods did not, in the end, take the first train back to London the next morning, but at Pat’s insistence, Fen and Sandy did.

“I’m not going to leave you up here alone,” Sandy tried to insist after breakfast.

“I’m not going be alone. I’ve sent a telegram to my mother, and she’ll be here this evening.” By that point, Pat prayed, Aunt Dora would have recovered herself enough to choke down the insults or accusations of the day before. “This is a family affair now, and it’s none of yours.”

He winced, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“You do,” Pat said firmly.

“And, I suppose, it means—I was hoping we could work through this.” In answer, Pat took off the understated diamond ring he’d given her and placed it in his hand. He sighed. “Right.”

“It’s not because of the money,” she said. “I can understand that part. It’s that you didn’t tell me.” It hurt despite everything, this severing of ties. “I really thought we might do well together.”

He gave her a wistful sort of smile. “We’d have been happy.”

“Happy enough, I suppose.” With the charming house and the adorable children. Pat shook her head. “Tell your mother I’m sorry not to say goodbye in person—but I think it’s best if I don’t. Take your cousin home, Sandy. I really do wish you well.”

His cousin came to Pat’s room just before they left for the station. “You’re certain you’ll be all right?” Fen asked.

“You heard the inspector,” Pat said, pressing her fingers to her temples. She had the devil of a headache. “He seemed convinced.”

“But he didn’t make any arrests.”

“Well, not yet. But he seems much less inclined to arrest _me_ , which I’m happy to hear.” She frowned at Fen, who stood in the doorway wearing her traveling clothes and looking concerned. “Did you really see Mrs. Atwood going into my uncle’s room? Or holding the pistol?”

“Oh, of course I didn’t,” Fen said dismissively. “And I never told the police I did. It was Mr. Atwood I wanted to tell, and he reacted just as I expected.” She gave Pat that little tilt of her head. Pat wanted to take her by the shoulders and— “You didn’t kill him after all, did you?’’

“What?” Pat sputtered. “Of course not!”

“Good. I didn’t really think so, but it would have been one in the eye for me after the scene I made last night.” She smiled a slow, regretful smile that barely showed her dimples at all. “We have a train to make.”

Pat nodded.

“I’d like to say it’s been a perfectly wonderful experience, but—”

“I understand,” Pat said dryly. “Goodbye, Fen.”

Fen turned to go, then paused. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m glad you aren’t marrying him. Don’t lie to yourself, whatever you do.”

“I’d rather not get caught by the housekeeper in the greenhouse, either.”

And there was the impish grin Pat had been waiting for. “Well, if you manage to find a safe middle ground, I hope you’ll let me know. Take care, Pat. And I mean it—be in touch.”

When she was gone, Pat moved to the window and leaned her aching head against the cold glass. She saw the motorcar pull up out front and, eventually, Sandy and Fen get inside. Pat thought fancifully that she could feel the comfortable future she’d planned stretching out between them. As the car pulled away it got thinner and thinner, until at last it had faded entirely.

Well, she thought, it was a new day and a new century. That had to count for something.

*******

Several weeks later, Pat stood on the doorstep of an imposing house in Mayfair and rang the bell.

“Miss Patricia Merton,” she said to the footman, handing over her card. “I’m here by appointment.”

She was shown into a well-appointed sitting room and asked to wait, as the master of the house was still engaged with an earlier appointment. She was feeling restless, as she often did when she was in town, so she didn’t sit. Instead she walked slowly around the room’s perimeter, letting her gaze drift over the bookshelves. A title caught her eye, and she turned her head sideways to see the author’s name—yes, there were half a dozen of Mr. Haggard’s works, lined up neatly one after the other. Pat smiled to herself.

The door opened behind her, and she turned, expecting to see the footman.

It was Fen.

“Good Lord, Pat!” she said in utter astonishment. She looked—homey, somehow, which was an odd thing to think, as she was dressed as fashionably and impractically as ever, but Pat decided at once that she liked to see Fen in her natural environment. “I thought it was one of the applicants in here.”

“Applicants—for this post, you mean?” Pat took a neatly-folded sheet of newspaper from her purse and opened it to show a circled advertisement. “For a lady’s companion. She must be ‘sober and responsible, but energetic, and having excellent references.’ Which I am, you know, and I do. It helps now that I’m not about to be tried for murder.”

Fen’s brown eyes had gone wide. “But I haven’t heard from you at all! I told you to be in touch, and you—”

“I was in touch,” Pat said. “With your father. I hope you don’t mind the surprise.”

Fen stared, then began to smile, and finally let out a peal of delighted laughter. “Pat, it is so good to see you, you’ve no idea.” She darted forward as though to take Pat’s hands, then checked herself just before she could. She was inches away, and Pat wanted very much to reach out. “I’ve been so worried—I followed the inquest from a distance, you know, and I’ve been poring over the papers since then. It will come to trial, then? And you’re in the clear?”

“I am,” Pat said, “but I don’t want to talk about that, certainly not until I’ve managed to impress upon your father my respectability and suitability for the post.”

“But you can’t want to be a companion,” Fen protested. “You were going to be _married_ to avoid it, and now you’ve simply heaps of money—”

“I’ve done quite well as a secretary and companion until now. I don’t see why I shouldn’t continue, and you’ll be much more fun to deal with than old Mrs. Crawford. Besides, I don’t have ‘heaps’ of money.” Pat made a face. “It didn’t seem quite right after everything, almost dirty somehow. Aunt Dora’s always had expectations, not to mention all kinds of charitable interests, and I don’t see why I should have an entire fortune just because her husband wanted to be contrary and took a liking to me. So I gave most of it back to her.”

“You _what_?” Fen said, dazed. It really was a pleasure to reduce her to this state for a change.

“Most,” Pat repeated. “Not all. I’m not a saint.” She smiled. “So your father can’t help but hire me—I’ll come cheap. Look, Fen.” Now she did reach for her hands, pressing them firmly through her gloves, and oh but it felt right to touch her again. “You said I should try to find a middle ground. We barely know one another, so I’m happy to take things slowly. We can see this as a trial period. Just, if you’re willing—meet me halfway?”

“If I’m willing?” Fen said. “You can’t think I’d say no.” She reached up toward Pat’s face, fingers stopping just short of her cheek, then swallowed and glanced over her shoulder to where the door was still cracked open.

“Best not,” Pat said, though she regretted it. “I’m waiting on my appointment.”

“But you’re certain this is what you want.”

“It’s not a nice house in Clerkenwell and a passel of children,” Pat admitted, “but I’ll make do on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I will absolutely not, under any circumstances, accompany you to another house party. It’ll be a condition of my employment.”

Fen giggled, swaying just a bit closer. Then she took a little breath and stepped back. “I’m sure I can persuade you if the question ever comes up.”

Pat grinned back her, not feeling at all sober and responsible. “You’re welcome to try.”


End file.
